


Outtakes from The Sea in Between: The Starvation Days

by Oh_Contrary



Series: The Sea in Between [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Fucked Up Shit, Heavy Angst, Hurt Lance (Voltron), Hurt No Comfort, Insecure Lance (Voltron), Isolation, Langst, Medical Experimentation, Mental Abuse, Physical Abuse, Starvation, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Why Did I Write This?, all the abuse, seriously, so much of it, tread lightly, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 15:25:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10127975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oh_Contrary/pseuds/Oh_Contrary
Summary: Takes place during Chapter seven ofThe Sea in BetweenIt had been three days since Haskoh had allowed Lance anything other than water and he ached with exhaustion. What few thoughts Lance had had about attempting to escape had long since fled.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Would you like a side of angst with your angst??
> 
> Me too!
> 
> Hi loves! Tay's back and more fucked up than ever. This piece is:
> 
> "BRUTAL." ~the New Yorker
> 
> "Taylor seriously wow damn." ~Also the New Yorker
> 
> "TAYLOR JESUS. THIS IS NUTS." ~Why is the New Yorker reading so much fic?
> 
> All joking aside:
> 
> Tread carefully darlings. Heed the tags. Rough waters ahead.  
> Please let me know if there is anything else I should be tagging as far as content/trigger warnings go.
> 
> xoxo  
> ~Tay
> 
> Edit (3.10.2017): New ending for this piece! +475 words!

The hopeful thrill of coming out of the pod was gone. Lance’s strengthened body was a fleeting moment that Haskoh had planned around. It had been three days since Haskoh had allowed Lance anything other than water and he ached with exhaustion. He was dehydrated and his head pounded with drumline precision. What few thoughts Lance had had about attempting to escape had long since fled.

“Your human body is a fascinating, if resilient, thing, paladin,” Haskoh said, circling around him. Lance was suspended in the room, hanging from the chain between his cuffs. Haskoh dragged his claws across the skin of his torso and he shuddered. He was tired of doing this. Haskoh was unpredictable, at times focused and brutal, working towards some unseen goal, but in other moments, methodical, simply revelling in causing Lance pain. Lance didn’t know which was worse.

Lance’s stomach rumbled and Haskoh chuckled.

“At least one part of you will scream for me, even as your mouth refuses to.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Lance said. Behind him, Haskoh dug his claws into the skin of his back. Lance flinched.

“You will address me with respect, boy.”

“I beg your pardon,” Lance said through grit teeth. “Go fuck yourself, _General_.” Haskoh growled and slashed his claws across Lance’s back, cutting into his skin. They were small wounds, but hurt, stinging in the cell’s stale air. Haskoh walked around to face Lance and smacked him across the face. Lance felt his lip split.

“I hope you understand it is only my own goodness keeping you alive, paladin.” Lance barked out a laugh.

“Really? I thought it was the fact that you need me for whatever your evil scheme is.” Haskoh’s eyebrows twitch into a scowl and Lance felt a thrill of satisfaction. Haskoh needed him. Haskoh needed him and Lance’s tight-lipped attitude had been thwarting the general for weeks. He wondered if the others would be proud of him.

Haskoh took a deep breath through his nose and walked to the panel on the wall. He lowered the hook and released Lance from it, dropping him to the floor.

“Please send two guards to holding room beta,” He said calmly into the intercom. In less than a minute two burly galra were walking into the room, barely looking down at Lance where he lay on the floor. Haskoh turned to the guards. “Take him to the research department. Let them do what they want to him, but know he must be functional, meaning alive, tomorrow.” The guards saluted before hauling Lance up off of the ground by his arms. Haskoh grabbed Lance by the chin and made him look into his yellow eyes.

“This will teach you who is in charge, _paladin_ ,” the general spat. “I hold your very life in my hands. Tomorrow, you will be grateful for me, you see: our research teams are rather enthusiastic, to say the least.” He patted Lance on the cheek and stepped away. “Get him out of my sight.”

Lance was carried through the halls to a large, white lab. Around the room were two dozen or so galra, all bustling between tables with vaguely terrifying devices and monitors. One corner of the room had stasis pods, two of which held other individuals, Lance assumed prisoners like himself, wired into beeping monitors. One of them was constantly twitching as though in pain.

One of his handlers shouted something in Galra and the room stilled. Suddenly all eyes were on Lance, picking him apart. A galra in a white uniform, tall, thin, but no less intimidating, stepped forwards and addressed the guards in Galra. Lance’s heart hammered in his chest while the two of them discussed. Finally, the tall galra called two more researchers from the lab and Lance was handed over.

He was led through the space, walked down the center of the room. He had never felt quite so exposed. The eyes of the researchers seemed to glow as he passed, all of them looking at him like some shining toy they couldn’t wait to get their hands on.  
He was led through a door at the end of the lab and into a small room. The room had what looked like a metal operating table right in the center and a number of vicious looking tools lining the walls. Lance began to thrash in the hold of his captors. He suddenly had the feeling that he would die on that table and be grateful for the relief of it. He was hefted into the air and pinned down on the metal surface. His limbs and head were restrained so that he could barely move. One of the Galra came and leaned over him, pressing a gag into his mouth. It separated his jaws so that he wouldn’t bite himself.

“We don’t want you to hurt yourself, human. You’re a fragile race and we can’t have you dying, General’s orders.” The tall one pulled a needle out of a case on the wall. “Now”— They grinned brightly— ”Let us begin.”

* * *

Lance wished he were dead. He had been so sure when this started that he would die and now he loathed himself for being wrong. He was alone in his cell, curled up on the floor trying to stop the tears, but they continued. He was so very tired. And so very alone. His body ached and he could feel the shadows of the researchers’ tools on his skin. Even now, the memory of the room sent him shaking.

“ _Oh mi Jesús, perdónanos nuestros pecados,”_ he whispered, to himself, curled up on the floor of his cell _. “líbranos del fuego del infierno, lleva todas las almas al cielo, especialmente las mas necesitadas de tu misericordia. Amen. Oh mi Jesús —_”

That was how Haskoh found him, rocking himself and whispering a rosary prayer.

“I see your time downstairs was educational,” Haskoh said with a smile. Lance fell silent but otherwise ignored the general. He took a shuddering breath and tried to center himself. He thought about the ocean and breathed in time with imagined waves. “Already, you’re more cooperative. Isn’t science a magical thing?” Haskoh grinned, stepping farther into the room towards Lance. “Now, maybe you’re ready to talk.”

“And maybe you’re ready to go fuck yourself,” Lance whispered into his knees. Haskoh stopped and Lance felt the room go cold.

“I don’t have time to train you, boy. You will either cooperate now or you will be sent away. Now—”

“Where would you put me?” Lance spat, eyes wild “In another one of your hell-holes? I’m not afraid of you, you know, I’m—”

“Emotional. Obviously.” Haskoh said, turning to leave the room. “I can’t have you losing yourself, I have work to do.”

Haskoh left and, within the hour, one of the handlers had come with food, but Lance refused to touch it. The handler stood, watching him for minutes on end as he refused to eat, before finally stepping out of the room. Lance looked at the tray in front of him and felt bile rise in his throat. He kicked it away, spreading the gruel over the floor, and rolled back into his corner. Soon, Lance heard the attendant return, whispering with Haskoh in Galra. Haskoh stepped into the room and marched straight up to Lance. He grabbed him by the hair and hauled Lance forward while he shouted in pain. Haskoh shoved Lance’s face into one of the piles of food on the floor.

“Eat, damn you!” But Lance refused to move, barely daring to breathe, even as Haskoh pressed Lance’s face into the floor with a booted foot. “Wretched human filth,” Haskoh muttered. He turned to the attendant. “Let him starve himself as he damn well pleases,” and then he left the room. The attendant cleaned up the gruel and left Lance alone in the room, where he cried himself to sleep.

Lance dreamt of the ocean. Of falling eternally into an ever darkening sea, and never once surfacing.

Then next day, Haskoh came in the morning with two guards, one of whom set a bowl on the floor in front of Lance. The room was quiet as stone while they waited for Lance to eat. He looked at the food and felt his stomach roll, throat filling with bile.

“Well, paladin? Don’t you want to sustain yourself?” Haskoh said icily.

“If it’s what would make you happy, then no.” Lance said plainly. Haskoh’s nostrils flared and his face drew into a snarl.

“Take him to medical and _force_ him to eat, for all I care! We have work to do,” Haskoh growled, leaving the room. Lance was hauled to his feet by the guards, but his shaking legs would barely carry him. The guards carried him by the arms and he allowed it, too tired to resist. They took him to the shining medical wing, walking through a windowed corridor. He caught glimpses of himself in the reflective surfaces and barely recognized himself. He was thin and haggard. His skin was sallow and his hair was a greasy mess of overlong curls. He remembered wanting to ask Coran to cut his hair. That was weeks ago, before he was taken.

They took him to a room and strapped him to a chair. They left him there by himself and he waited until a doctor arrived with an assistant and a convoluted looking series of tubes. He spoke to the assistant in Galra for a while, moving about the room and setting things in place. He attached one of the tubes to a mask that he pulled down from the ceiling.

“Nutrient administration, session one. Human prisoner,” he said, while the assistant fitted the mask beneath Lance’s nose and secured it behind his head.

* * *

Lance felt sick. His throat ached and his limbs felt heavy. He laid on the floor of his cell and tried not to think.

He hurt all over. He wanted to die. At least then, whatever Haskoh was planning wouldn’t work. Surely he could help his friends in that way.

He wondered if they would be proud of him.

* * *

It had been two full days of forced meals: once in the morning, again at night. The sessions were spent with some Galra doctor looming over him as he choked on the bland goo they funneled in from somewhere above him. The assistant held his head back, pressing the back of his head against the metal of the chair to straighten his neck; the better to ease the passage of food. He had a bruise hidden somewhere beneath his hair.

Haskoh and his guards came in, telling Lance it was morning. He was tucked into his usual corner, his back towards the galra. One of the guards set a bowl of watery gruel on the floor nearby. Lance didn’t respond, staring blankly into the corner. Haskoh made a frustrated noise, crossing the small room in three strong strides. He grabbed Lance by the back of the neck and jerked him into the center of the room. He landed on all fours, glaring up at Haskoh, who slid the bowl of food in front of him with the tip of his boot.

“Eat.” They both glared at each other, Lance watching Haskoh’s jaw clench and unclench as he attempted to keep his calm facade. Lance looked down at the food. His stomach was rolling at the thought of complying, but the threat of the room with the doctor and his assistant made his skin crawl.

“You didn’t give me a spoon,” he mumbled weakly, eyes welling with tears. He didn’t want to look up. He could feel Haskoh’s satisfaction, he didn’t need to see the smug look that probably came with it. Lance set his jaw. “Well?”

The question sat in the air.

“Bring the paladin something to eat with,” Haskoh said to one of the guards, who left the room immediately. They returned shortly, with the usual attendant, who carried a tray with water and utensils. They brought it in and were intercepted by Haskoh, who grabbed the spoon off of the tray and crouched in front of Lance. He dropped the spoon into the bowl, sending some of the gruel splattering up into the air. A spot of it landed on Lance’s cheek and he bit his lip, choking back frustrated tears. “Well, what do you say, paladin?”

The room was silent. Haskoh tutted wryly.

“We’ll work on manners later, then.” Haskoh stood, noticing a speck of gruel that landed on his pants. He scooped it up with a finger, bent over, and wiped it off on Lance’s prisoner uniform.

“Enjoy your meal, paladin,” Haskoh crooned, leaving with his guards. The attendant stayed, standing in the corner, watching Lance. Lance picked up a spoonful of the gruel and brought it to his lips. His hands were shaking. Suddenly, he noticed he was crying. The attendant did nothing, simply stood, silent in the corner, watching to make sure Lance finished his meal.

**Author's Note:**

> Contrary to the brutality of the shit I write,
> 
> I really do love you all!
> 
> Let me know what you think! Leave comments to let me know what you like! Who knows? maybe a comment could turn into an outtake moment!
> 
> Come yell at me on [tumblr](https://profoundprincessface.tumblr.com/)!


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